Night-night. Bed.

The nighttime ritual with Lu has been pretty consistent. Bath, watch a few minutes of TV in our bedroom, books, a few songs including "Who Knows How Long I've Loved You" ("I Will" by the Beatles), "When You're Down and Troubled" ("You've Got a Friend," by James Taylor), "Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night" ("Blackbird," by the Beatles). Ater singing we say "Now I Lay me Down to Sleep," minus the morbid bit about "my soul to take," then she blesses various people, then she says "Night-night. Crib." You have to put her in her crib in just the right way, pat her back a couple of times, then she says, "Good ni-ight." And you are dismissed. And she goes to sleep. And it's a little miracle, every single night.

I only now appreciate what a miracle our routine was (namely the part about how she goes to sleep), because...it's gone. She decided during last Sunday's nap that she was done with the crib. She climbed out eight times, finally falling asleep with me next to her on a palette on the floor. We blew up a twin air mattress for her to sleep on that night, which she did, quite well.

But the novelty of that first night has worn off, replaced by the realization that she can leave the bed whenever she wants. And so she does. As I write this post, I am sitting guard outside her door.

Relativity

At the mall today, after some hysterics over a "flushy" toilet at Nordstrom, Lu was acting like a whiny little baby before we went into California Pizza Kitchen for dinner. In response, I acted like a whiny little baby. Nini diffused the situation, luckily, so we were able to enter the restaurant, order and eat like CIVILIZED PEOPLE.

Not so civilized: the people sitting next to us. Where do I start? This little family was a study in "Not How I Would Do It" — a useful phrase coined by the Stephens, a coy little judgment you won't be able to stop using (my granny's version of it was "I'm not on that committee.") The toddler, a month older than Lu, was screaming, banging her plate, standing on a chair, jumping on the booth, crawling on the ground, meowing, and acting in so uncivil a manner I really can't even describe it. The people next to us, an entire table away from the kid, asked to move. She was acting like a complete freak.

Which I realize makes my use of the word freak to describe Lu...unfair. She sat in her chair. She ate her dinner. She whined over a few lost crayons, but then shared her sundae. All the while, her crazed neighbor was acting so bad as to make Lu look perfect. Little Miss Crazy's Mama (mother of four, plastic-surgeried to the hilt, "none of my kids ever sat in a high chair or slept in a crib") kept praising Lu as though to set an example for her daughter, despite the fact that she's raising her like an animal. One that meows at the CPK.

Lu was no angel, but she did not crawl or meow. Comparison suited her today.

Snot

It sounds like a TB ward at our house: the coughing, the phlegm, the complaints. I am not sure if it's TB or consumption. Either way, a doctor visit tomorrow will tell us for sure. Maybe we will have to go to a sanitorium and get saunas and massages. Or move to the country where we can relax and breathe fresh air and be healed by boredom.

One odd symptom that does not match our TB/consumption angle: Lu has an itchy butt. This seems like it might exclude one from the steam room. For the record, my butt does NOT itch.

My So-Called Youth

It is both thriliing and dismaying to have all the angst of your adolescence bundled neatly into one TV show. "My So-Called Life" was not so much life-altering as life-defining for me. In high school, I was dorky-cool. I made bad friend choices. My best friend was gay. I didn't dye my hair red, and my parents weren't married, but so much of the rest...

So you can imagine that seeing this show — THE SHOW I CAMPAIGNED PASSIONATELY TO KEEP OVER THAT RANCID "TOOL TIME" — on Noggin weirds me out. When I loved this show, I was 21, remembering being 15. Seeing it now, at 33, I am startled to find myself this old. Ew. I am a parent. A suit. The Man. I need to closely manage my use of "like" as a pause word. People call me ma'am and think I am cool "for a mom." I AM VERY CLOSE TO THE AGE OF THE PARENTS PORTRAYED ON THIS SHOW.

The So-Called Truth seems inevtitable:
• Lu will hate me.
• I will be so lame, the words I speak will make little lame fumes.
• Lu will be bored and put upon and better than me.
• Lu will love someone with good hair and bad grades...OMG, Jordan Catalano just walked in! Quotes from Angela after that:

"I can't believe that Jordan Catalano was actually trying to diagram my sentences. His sentences were really short."

"You know how sometimes the last thing you said just keeps echoing in your brain? And it just keeps sounding stupider, so you have to say something else to make it stop?"

That last bit of insight is still a defining force in my life. That's reassuring. You can be 15 or 33, and still say a bunch of dumb stuff all the time.

10 Things I Like about Lu

1. The way she chews. She eats with her mouth open, but she has tiny teeth, so it's not smacky and gross.
2. Her tiny hands. Yesterday, she made me pretend to sleep, and as she patted my face, I wanted to eat her dumpling hands.
3. Her scratchy voice. It's deep for a 2.5-year-old, and sometimes very fierce.
4. Her facial expressions. That sounds like too broad a thing to love, but she purses her lips, furrows her brow, deeply sadly frowns, lights up, cheesily smiles. She has no poker face — and she shouldn't as a two-year-old, but it seems clear to me she never will.
5. Her grammar. She is the classic demonstration of primitive verb conjugation: gets the regular verbs ("I walked"), struggles with the irregulars ("I go-ed"). And when you correct her, she scrunches her eyes a little, trying to understand the pattern.
6. Her butt. Today, I grabbed her square, Jason-like, pantied butt and said, "I like your booty," and she said, "I like your booty, too." I asked where my booty was, and she said, "On your butt!" Duh.
7. Her observance. Today on our run she noticed a train, a plane, dogs of every size, "faster" people, "slowly" people, the sunset, ducks, kayaks, and a bearded homeless man I couldn't even begin to explain ("What's he doing, Mama?").
8. Her thumb. It's an unmistakable sign of tiredness, vulnerability, softness. When she is sucking her thumb, she will put her head on my shoulder and settle into me in a way she is normally too busy for.
9. Her singing. She can sing "Blackbird" and "I Will" by the Beatles, "You've Got a Friend" by James Taylor, various interpretations of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" and other classic kid songs, as well as many made-up tunes that are flat and sincere.
10. Her contrary nature. On Sunday, we were all snuggled in bed, and she decided she wanted to go outside. Jason protested, lying, "It's raining, we can't." She stomped to the window and looked outside. "Nooo, Dada, it's not raining, we can too go outside."

Loves Dogs

During the night-night ritual, Lu accidentally smacked Clifford with a book.

“Awww, I’m sorry, Clifford. Let me give you a kiss. (kisses nose) Are you okay? (lays head on him, petting him) Did I hurt you? Dada, can Clifford sleep in my room with me, Dada?”

p.s. Lu, oddly, has been calling Jason “Dada.” He HATES it. And, as though she senses his loathing of the term, she starts and finishes every sentence in his general direction with it. Dada. Haha.

Lu Goes on the Record

When we first brought Lucy home from the hospital, we had this log in which we were supposed to record her every pee and poop. It was to serve as a record of how much she was eating (and thriving). In true Freudian fashion, I was obsessed with this log, which we kept for almost the first month of her life. Now, there's a new facet to the record, not just what and when, but where (in a diaper, in panties, at home, at the grocery store).

We are in full-force potty-training, trying to be both persistent and laid-back. She is making great progress, especially considering the Automatic Flushing Scare of July 2006. We had been giving her stickers, but their allure has worn off and now we're onto cookies as rewards. The log for the past few days reads as follows:

Sunday: 9:00 a.m.: Pee, bathroom floor, my foot
note: defiantly refused to sit on potty, then marked me like a dog. raised my voice, will surely be something to discuss with shrink later

Sunday: 10:15-10:30 a.m.: Nothing, potty at Blue Star Cafeteria
note: multiple exploratory sorties to bathroom as ruse to avoid sitting in her seat

Sunday: 12:20 p.m.: Poop, diaper
note: asked her if she wanted to try to finish on the potty. declined.

Sunday: 12:30 p.m.: Poop, diaper

Sunday: 2:30-6:30: Pee, various diapers

Sunday: 7:30 p.m.: Pee, potty

Monday: 8:15 a.m.: Pee, potty
note: only did it for cookie

Monday: 9:45 a.m.: Pee, potty at T3
note: had to do test flush, then put Baby Rosie on, then peed, then demanded promised donut

Monday, 11:30 a.m. (approx.): Pee, potty at Museum with Granny
note: major milestone in public peeing history

Monday, 3 p.m.: Pee, potty
note: after waking up from nap with dry panties

Monday, 4:30 p.m.: Pee, then Poop (attempted), potty
note: exclaimed "Pee comes first!"

Monday, 7:30 p.m. Pee, potty
note: first whole day with no accidents! great progress from foot-pissing!

Kiss the Tivo

We have an ongoing debate about how much television Lu should watch, which is an extension of the debate about our own TV watching. Which is not a debate, so much as ongoing internal muttering ("There are so many thing I should be doing instead of this. Wow, Patrick Dempsey never stops being hot to me. I should really find something to read."), punctuated by the occasional hysterical outburst ("Jason, fold while you watch!")

We never watch "regular" TV in front of Lu, unless you count professional sports and whatever soap/talk show my mom wants to have on while she is here. And, speaking as the only person in this organization who cares about her TV diet, this is good. She mostly watches good stuff: non-commercial toddler TV with numbers and letters and life lessons and affirming messages! So you can imagine how it breaks my wannabe ascetic intellectual heart that she thinks Tivo is a character like Elmo. She kisses his little legged icon on the remote. "I love Tivo, Mama." I love Tivo too, but it is a secret, shameful affair.

Then, "The Little Mermaid" arrived. It was part of a funny care package from Baga and Opa that included a disposable camera and some delicious cookies, which Lu has wanted to eat for every meal. "The Little Mermaid," a seemingly simple Disney film. It's for kids — what's not to like? I won't go on a diatribe about the anti-feminist themes at the heart of "The Little Mermaid." I won't give an overly intellectual analysis of the stereotypical portrayal of people of Caribbean origin. The real problem with "The Little Mermaid" is that it's delightful, it's magnetic. You can't tear your eyes away (even if you're two and Ursula is too scaredy for you). You want to watch and watch and watch.

"The Little Mermaid" is like cookies. Once it shows up, you want to have it for every meal. We are currently trying to refocus her interest on worthwhile things like vegetables, which she hates, and photography, which she loves. (Thanks, Baga and Opa — she's quite an artiste, although of the 15 exposures on the camera, 13 are of the ground and 2 are of boogers).

I am not sure what would happen if Ariel and Tivo were to reproduce, but I am pretty sure Lu would start a new religion to worship their offspring.